


Impractical Magic

by AU Mer-Maid (neonstardust)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Couch Cuddles, Cuddling & Snuggling, Don't Let The Tags Fool You This Is Safe For Work, Established Relationship, Kinktober 2019, Temperature Play, Wholesome Safe For Work Content In My Kinktober? Heck Yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-15 06:13:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21248759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonstardust/pseuds/AU%20Mer-Maid
Summary: Shirabu knows there should be some kind of benefits to having a roommate who can do magic, but a year into it, he still has no idea what those benefits might be.In which Yahaba is a show off, and Shirabu just wants to be warm this winter.





	Impractical Magic

**Author's Note:**

> Kinktober Date 30 - Prompt: Temperature Play

A mindless show plays on the television. Sunk deep in the comfort of the couch, Shirabu watches through half closed eyes. Late afternoon sunlight slants through the blinds, painting the room in cozy golden orange. It’s perfect.

Except it’s cold. He tries to wiggle deeper into the cushions for protection. His sleeves offer little warmth, but he pulls them closer anyway.

The show ends. Besides him. Yahaba flips absently through the channels. He passes the latest mecha anime, an old medical drama, a spy movie without a plot.

Commercials interspace his search. Shirabu tunes out the obnoxious jingle for the new American restaurant by the university. An ad for hand warmers flashes across the screen. Yahaba settles on an action movie, and as they wait for it to start, commercials air for warm soup, heated blankets, an electric fireplace.

The temperature in the room seems to drop. Goosebumps rise on his arms. Shirabu hugs his legs to his chest, but the room only seems to grow colder. On the wall, the thermostat remains unchanged.

“Stop,” Shirabu says.

Yahaba doesn’t take his gaze off the television. “Breathing?”

“Yes,” he says, because there's no other suitable answer to that type of question.

Yahaba breathes louder.

Outside, the sun fizzles behind gray clouds as a new layer of snow drifts to the ground. Shirabu watches snowflakes collect on the window glass. Just looking at it makes him colder.

“I know what you’re doing.”

Yahaba raises an eyebrow. “Rotting?”

“Besides that.”

“I’m doing literally nothing.”

On the screen, a car explodes. The hero jumps off a rooftop. The love interest is kidnapped and rescued. Between cliché action scenes, a commercial for a big, year-end kotatsu sale plays. A public service announcement follows it, displaying the warning signs for frostbite and emphasizing that Shirabu’s fingers feel like they’ve been replaced with ice cubes. By the time the love interest has been recaptured for a second daring rescue, Shirabu reaches his limit.

Crawling across the couch, Shirabu drapes himself over Yahaba’s lap. His skin radiates with warmth, and Shirabu snuggles in closer, pulling his legs up to straddle his hips. “I hate you.”

Yahaba’s hands feel like they’re filled with living fire when he places them on Shirabu’s back. “Oh, worm?” He presses a blazing trail of kisses down Shirabu’s neck.

“You’ll break my air conditioner,” Shirabu says.

Pinned beneath his glare, Yahaba’s charade falters, a slight smirk shining through. “I didn’t do anything,” he lies.

Shirabu flicks his forehead. “You can’t play with the bloody temperature every time you wanna cuddle.”

“Yes, I can—”

Shirabu flicks him again, and he winces. “Okay, okay. Fine.” Yahaba rubs his head. “But how about this?” Before Shirabu can stop him, he snaps his fingers. The heater shuts off. Cold floods the apartment. Shirabu raises his hands to murder him, but then a blanket appears, swathing them both in warmth.

Shirabu glares, but Yahaba kisses his cheek. “This is better for your electric bill.”

“_I’m cold_.”

Yahaba spins his finger in a circle. Glass clinks. A moment later, two mugs of hot chocolate float in from the kitchen, settling themselves on the end table. Yahaba hands Shirabu one and asks, “Better?”

“Stupid magic.” Shirabu sips his drink. The hot chocolate warms his throat, his chest, sending heat through his icy limbs, and Shirabu knows for certain that it’s been enchanted, too.

Yahaba waits until he sets the mug down to resume kissing his neck, working his way down to Shirabu’s collar bones. “You love my magic,” he murmurs into the hollow at the base of his throat.

“Your magic set the kitchen on fire,” Shirabu reminds him.

“One time.”

“Three,” Shirabu corrects. “And you got us banned from the supermarket.”

“I sneezed. How was I supposed to know it would levitate a fruit stand?” Rolling his eyes, Yahaba snaps his fingers again. The blinds close. The lights turn off, and the candles blaze to life, floating out of their perches. The television changes to a movie Shirabu hasn’t seen before.

“Show off,” he mumbles.

“Yep.” Yahaba maneuvers them so he can lay down, Shirabu sinking down against his chest. With a twitch of his fingers, the blanket readjusts itself to keep them covered. “This okay?”

Shirabu listens to Yahaba’s heart beating beneath his ear. “Yeah.”

Yahaba lifts his hand again, but Shirabu catches it this time, lacing their fingers together before he can conjure up anything else. Yahaba furrows his brows, lips tugged into a concerned frown.

Magic, no matter how impressive or mysterious, is simple. It follows rules. It can’t bring the dead back to life. It can’t make a person fall in love. It can’t win the lottery. And it can’t be used without a command. A flick of the wrist. A twitch of the thumb. Some kind of sign unique to the person wielding it.

“You don’t have to do so much,” Shirabu says. The opening credits bathe their skin in soft blue, and he presses a kiss to Yahaba’s knuckles. “I’m here for you. Not your magic.”

Yahaba’s left hand has no enchanting capabilities, but when he runs his fingers through Shirabu’s hair, it carries a magic all its own. “I know.”

Shirabu leans into his touch. “I won’t let you forget.” Yahaba kisses the top of his head, sparking a warmth in Shirabu's chest stronger than any fake heat Yahaba could ever conjure up.


End file.
